I feel guilty for ruining my boyfriend’s life

When I was 18 I got into a relationship with my now ex fiancé, who was 27 at the time.
I thought he was experienced and emotionally steady, and we had intellectually stimulating conversation, but we clashed on some of our views -specifically surrounding what constitutes as cheating behavior.

As a super friendly person, I struggled with this and felt bad that I didn’t have a strong desire to be “less friendly” even if it was perceived as flirtatious interaction.
I’m aware that intention doesn’t negate harm and I was in the wrong here.

Things escalated on a drunk night when I called his roommate over to have a chat after bf had went to bed in my apartment. I was friends with his roommate and delighted to offer advice he had asked for and to have some more social interaction before ending the night, but quickly sent him away and felt quite guilty once I realized it was just a ploy to try to get me to sleep with him. I felt weird that he would try to kiss me knowing I was in a relationship with his roommate and I brought it up to bf the next morning.

Bf was livid (which was fair, it looked pretty bad) and demanded to see texts with the roommate. I was naive to think he would believe that I sent the guy away and only meant to have harmless conversation, especially considering how irritated he was around me talking to or hanging out with our other guy friends even with him there, but I still didn’t expect him to get as angry as he did. It felt like in the moment that anything he found could be interpreted as evidence of cheating, so in a moment of pure terror of losing him, I foolishly deleted the messages.

Extremely grave mistake, obviously.

Absence of proof is arguably worse for the relationship than potential proof, as the mind is left to fill in the gaps.
I tried to restore the messages after fighting with him and begging him to stay, but wasn’t able to get them back. I sobbed to my friend over the phone about my situation and asked for advice on how to mend things since it was clear he wouldn’t be able to see/trust my explanation. He eventually came back to talk it out and hear my side again, and I also begged him to stay and told him I was committed to doing better and that he didn’t have to give me another chance if I messed up again.

Less than six months into the relationship, I fell pregnant. Apparently he had been under the assumption that I would have an abortion if the matter ever came up, given the way we would joke, and my unclear political standpoint, despite never having a serious conversation.
This is why he was less than thrilled when I nervously showed him the test.
He carefully expressed his concerns about having a child at that stage in our relationship/his life, but ultimately left the decision up to me.
Still to this day, I don’t know what was going through my head, and I do feel guilty about ruining his life -but I don’t regret her.

I thought it couldn’t happen to me, that I may not want kids until much later, if ever. But I felt so strongly. It’s unlike anything I have ever felt.
I knew it was risky. Fucking crazy. And yet there was no way in hell I could get an abortion. I just couldn’t do it.

He didn’t warm up to the idea of being a dad until maybe 5-6 months into my pregnancy, and my past “untrustworthy” behavior cast a shadow over our relationship.
Despite this, we moved into an apartment together and I got another job closer to the area. I began doing everything I possibly could to earn my place in his life; taking up as much of the cooking and cleaning as I could while finishing up my associates and working my two little jobs, paying as much as I could towards rent and bills, and just generally trying to redeem myself and prove I could be a loving, loyal partner and good mom.
Months passed and it felt like we only grew further apart. Between work, the gym, and gaming, it felt like I didn’t have much of him.
I remember feeling a little bitter while carrying a laundry basket on my big belly and leaning over to turn on the sprinkler to water the lawn while he gamed.

The closer we got to having our daughter, the worse the gaming got. The only time I felt close to him was at night when I was sleeping next to him, and even then, he had started coming to bed at sometimes five o clock in the morning.
I kept at my little job and the housework and the cooking, trying to do little acts of service for him since it was his love language. By late pregnancy I was begging him to come to bed, crying when he would leave for work or the gym, and feeling completely alone and isolated.
He was gaming when I went into labor, only pausing to tell the “boys” he would be back once I told him my water broke.
We only spent six hours total in the birth center where I gave birth to my beautiful daughter, unmedicated, at 19 years old. He fell asleep pretty quickly after and napped once we got home as well (not a hospital stay so we went home that day).
Night time rolled around and he was back on the computer gaming, screaming.
When I was in the other room with our newborn.

I remember telling my mother, who had come over to help, when she woke up briefly, that it was okay. Not to mind him or bother, that I didn’t mind. I was “enjoying time with the baby”.

In reality, that is one of the most lonely times I have ever experienced in my life.
I had to have several shots of Pitocin after hemorrhaging with my daughter, and the blood loss made me feel mentally foggy and almost confused for several days after. As I sat there for hours in a dark room, unable to sleep, staring into space, I remembering thinking: “I wish I could just talk to somebody…”
Just for a few minutes. I had went through some of the most traumatic pain in my life, and even though daughter was healthy and I was recovering, it felt like I needed to process. Or just talk. About breakfast, about chores, about anything. I just didn’t want to be alone.

Despite having paid paternity leave through his job that he was able to stretch out for five months (by going into work about once a week), he spent most of it gaming. By the first week I was already up again trying to cook meals while holding our newborn, by the second I was doing what I could to help clean up. I remember feeling proud when I cooked him breakfast one-handed and brought it to him at the computer.

Most of postpartum was me and my daughter, and him and his games. And I feel guilty, because I think he was trying to escape our life.
I thought it would be okay, that maybe it would get better. I stopped nursing daughter and got back on my antidepressants after a year, started up medical coding school to see if I could try and contribute while being at home, and we eventually bought our first home.

He never did much with her at night, but he did start stepping up more in general after that first year. And yet, I was burning out.
Cooking, cleaning, school, freelance work, childcare, our sex and romantic life- it was falling apart.
I started experiencing severe and debilitating symptoms after moving into the new house, and after years of keeping up, I felt like I was falling behind. It was hard to get out of bed.
I gave up on medical coding school, even though he paid for it. He let me become a full stay at home mom, despite his financial goals and obvious distaste for me not working. And still, I couldn’t keep up.
I kept trying things, god, I tried everything I knew. Medication, supplements, different diet, therapy, but if I’m being honest, it was hard to keep up with even those.

I was failing.

I didn’t have an answer when he would ask, “can’t you at least make dinner?”
Because, why couldn’t I? I didn’t know what was wrong with me either.
Resentment grew as the house became unkempt, our toddler started watching more TV, and I could no longer meal prep for the week.
He had never been very reassuring, but after a conversation about me staying home/not working, I asked him if he was even in love with me. After almost four years, he said he wasn’t sure.
He would tell me he loved me, but when asked to think about it, he didn’t feel very much for me.

So I decided to leave.

And now he lives alone in a house I was supposed to help renovate, and pays child support for a kid he was never ready for, and is another year older, with no relationship.,

I’m sorry, ex. If only you would’ve let me go, maybe it wouldn’t have turned into such a mess. I loved you so much, but now I think it must’ve been suffocating you.

I’m sorry.